Whiter Shade of Pale
by theferalEDGE
Summary: Sam becomes infected by a mysterious parasite while investigating a plane crash site. There's something odd about this parasite, and the effect it's having on Sam is extremely bad...Who can the brothers turn to? Will it help? CHPT 8 UP!
1. Starting Up The Trail

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters—not of them at all—even though Jensen and Jared are like... the hottest guys in history... they're sculpted out of stone... but they're so hot they can't be straight... ok, moving on, just read the story!**

**Chapter One: Starting Up The Trail **

Dean Winchester glanced at the radio clock beside his bed and groaned, throwing aside a sports magazine and falling back against his pillow. He absolutely _had_ to get some sleep if he expected to be coherent when morning came, but his eyes weren't heavy enough to close. He was too wired from the day, even though it was two o'clock in the morning and counting.

A knock sounded softly on the little door connecting the two hotel rooms, and Dean looked up. "Yeah?"

Sam, Dean's younger brother, slid into the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Are you kidding?" Dean said loudly. "It's two o'clock, bro, why the Hell aren't you asleep?"

Sam sat down on the end of Dean's bed. "Why aren't you?" He retorted.

Dean rolled his eyes and reached for the sports magazine again, choosing to stop the conversation in its tracks. He hadn't told Sam, but he'd had an awful lot of trouble sleeping lately. It wasn't related to nightmares or a subconscious uneasiness—at least as far as he could tell, it wasn't—he just hadn't been tired lately.

"Who was that on the phone?" Sam asked.

"What?"

"Weren't you on the phone? You were talking to someone about the hike tomorrow, I heard you."

Dean, remembering, lowered the magazine again. "Yeah, that was the guy from Moosehead Lodge. He told me the trip leaves at eight sharp tomorrow, so don't sleep in."

Sam waited hesitantly. "Something wrong?"

"No, why?"

"Well, on the phone, you... I thought I heard you... That wasn't the lodge guy. Was it?"

Dean looked up, meeting his brother's eyes. A fleeting look of uncertainty crossed his face for a moment. "Um... No, it wasn't the lodge guy. That was... That was Andy Thompson."

Sam frowned. "The witness?"

"Yeah. He—well, he actually called me. He wanted to make sure I knew what we were getting ourselves into."

Sam crossed his arms, fixing Dean with an interrogating stare. "Look, Dean, if we're gonna do this, you're going to have to tell me that truth. The whole truth."

"Andy doesn't think we have a chance," Dean expostulated, giving in. "All the others were taken with symptoms of the sickness within one day of exposure. He's the only one who's still functional, little bro. Tell you the truth, I'm pretty damn worried, too. He still won't tell me exactly what he saw up there."

"Why didn't you just tell me that?"

"I knew it would worry you."

"I'm already worried, damn. How do you think I feel, hiking up a mountain to a plane crash sight from which seven people have caught a supernatural disease and become incapacitated?"

"Time for you to go to bed, champ."

"No more patronizing. You stay up, I stay up."

Dean glared for a moment, and then sighed. "Fine. But don't complain to me when you can't make it half way up the mountain tomorrow."

Sam grinned, shoving back on the bed so that he could be more comfortable for a long period of time. "Pass me the other magazine."

"Get it yourself."

"It's less than three inches from your left hand!"

"My hand is comfortable where it is."

"Prick," Sam muttered, reaching for it himself.

The next morning came around more quickly than Dean had expected. Dean groaned, opening his eyes and sitting up, vaguely surprised that he'd fallen asleep at all. He smiled when his eyes found Sam, who had fallen asleep with one half of his body off the side of the bed, his arm resting on the carpeted floor in what looked like an awkward position. Sam didn't seem to notice, though, because his breathing was slow and soft, and his head rested easily on the comforter. Dean found himself watching Sam fondly.

"You're not so bad, little bro," He muttered.

Sam's eyelids flickered open. "Huh?" He muttered drowsily.

Dean cleared his throat, straightening up. "I said you're not too bad, if only you were always sleeping and never talking." He pushed the covers back and stood, ruffling Sam's hair gruffly as he passed. Sam rolled his eyes, also sitting up.

"Temperature's s'posed to be about thirty today," Dean said, pulling on jeans, a sweatshirt, and a brown jacket. "Going to be cold."

Sam shrugged. "We're going to die someday."

Dean chuckled. "Let's make it sixty years from now, alright?"

Three vans had already come and gone when Dean and Sam arrived at the Moosehead Lodge below Mt. Lafayette. The space outside the lodge was almost filled with the thirty-something hikers that had crash-touring on their list of holiday plans. As Dean hitched his backpack higher onto his shoulders, he couldn't help but throw them dirty looks. He hated tourists who cared about nothing but feeding on other people's tragedies and misfortunes, like those who followed ambulances just to see who was hurt and what was going on.

The bus to the base of the mountain trail was even more of a test of Dean's patience. People all around them were having loud, obnoxious conversations about the plane crash, and speculating on widespread rumors about the cause of it, as well as the mysterious fates of the last hiking group to ascend Lafayette.

"Yeah, I know, my Uncle actually talked to one of them," Someone said directly in front of the brothers. "He told me this guy was like, criminally insane, you know? Like, really crazy, like seeing stuff."

"Nuh-uh—what else did he say?"

"Well, I don't know if I should really talk about it, though, you know? 'Cause, like, isn't it classified, or something?"

Dean glanced sideways at Sam. "What a bunch of suckers, you know she wants to talk about it," He grumbled skeptically.

The girl in the seat in front of them continued noisily. "I guess I can just say that this guy, like supposedly saw this weird red thing in the air up at the crash."

"Like, a bird, or something?"

"No, no, my Uncle said it was, like, this red misty thing, and then it took some sort of shape, I wasn't really listening to him."

"You never listen."

"I listen, just not to him. Plus, the OC was on, ok? I can't do two things at once. Besides, he was drunk when he told me the story."

Sam, tired of hearing two friends yak a few feet away from him, opened the window and let the freezing air whip at his dark hair. Dean raised his eyebrows. "What are you doing, man? It's negative fifty outside."

"Yeah, but it's ninety in here. And we have tourists hogging our oxygen, too."

"Can't argue with you there. Can you see the mile signs outside?"

Sam turned back to the open window, squinting his eyes to see up the road. Finally a brown, wooden sign came into view on the side of the pavement that read, 'Benadon Trail, next left.' "Yeah, we're there."

The bus pulled to a stop in a parking space just below the opening to a small, crooked trail. Dean eyed it warily, waiting for Sam to catch up to him before starting up the path ahead of the rest of the group. It wasn't supposed to be a long hike—just 2 or three miles to the first summit, about forty five minutes to an hour of climbing. However, they had chosen the shortest trail, which unfortunately came in a package with the label 'steepest trail', too.

"Water?" Sam offered as they started up the steep slope. "You might want it later."

"No thanks. You hold on to it, will you? This shouldn't take too long."

Sam walked a little bit behind Dean in silence for a while, his brow furrowed. Underneath his jacket he could feel his pulse quicken slightly as he worked to keep up with his brother, and he welcomed the sense of physical activity that he hadn't felt in a week. But his mind was a little heavier than his body as he sank deeper and deeper into thought. His certainty about the two of them trekking up a hill to this crash sight had faded slightly, no thanks to the conversation he'd overheard on the bus.

"Sam?"

Sam stopped quickly and looked up.

"I said, what's on your mind?"

"Oh, sorry. I was just thinking."

"About what?"

Sam shifted his weight faintly to the other side. Only Dean would be able to recognize the casual action as a signal of nervous contemplation in his younger brother. Sam didn't answer for a moment.

"Hey, what is it, bro?"

"Do you think what they were saying on the bus could be accurate? At all?"

"You mean that red—bird—misty shit they said?"

Sam shrugged. "What if it had some sort of basis in fact?"

Dean gave him a thoughtful stare. "You worried?"

"Of course I'm worried."

"Yeah," said Dean after a while. "I guess that deserves consideration. But it won't help either of us if we sit here and talk about it. We won't find out any more unless we just get there."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I know." He still felt a little unsure.

"Hey." Dean reached out and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You're my little brother. I'm not going to let any red misty ghost get you, alright?"

Sam grinned, and followed Dean further up the steep, winding trail.

**REVIEW, CHUMMIES! I LUV YOU, THIS IS MY FIRST SUPERNATURAL FIC, SO BE REAL NICE, k? MUAH**


	2. Out Of The Box

**Disclaimer: I still don't any of these hotties... Please, I'm stopping myself from losing myself on another rant about the extent of their hotness...**

**Chapter Two: Out Of The Box**

The mile marker told Sam and Dean that they were about 100 yards from the summit, but they had no need for it, because Dean had spotted the wreckage of the small biplane off to their left.

"Over there," He said, pointing.

The two of them, far ahead of the group and out of sight, climbed across the stone wall that marked the trail and walked carefully through the trees to the large clearing where the plane had come down. Dean circled it, staring intently at the scorch marks flanking both sides of the 'hull'. The right wing had been almost completely torn off when the plane made contact with the trees above the clearing, but Dean could tell the little plane had been built to be tough. Although an explosion had destroyed the interior of the cockpit, the metal exterior was only blackened—not broken.

"It doesn't look like it fell a thousand feet from the sky and crashed into a mountain," Sam commented quietly, also examining the debris. "Looks like it fell—I don't know, maybe a hundred feet."

"Yeah, but I guess it doesn't really matter. These old machines were made to last. What we need to be looking for are any signs of..." He hesitated, an amused expression sliding onto his chiseled face. "We don't even know what we're looking for, you know that?"

"That's not really what I consider funny. That's more of a doomful fact to me."

"_Doomful_?" Dean laughed. "If you ever use that word again in my presence, I'll have you assassinated. Come on, let's get started."

Dean squatted beside the ruined cockpit and reached inside, rustling around in some scraps of metal and charred fabric. He picked up a clipboard which had one entire side burnt off of it, and tossed it away form the plane, starting a messy pile of what he hoped would become a pile of evidence in time.

Sam followed his lead. He walked around to the other side of the plane and bent down. "See that? Can you reach that med kit back there?"

Dean reached an arm under some of the fragments of siding and clasped onto the handle of an old fashioned First Aid kit, dragging it out into the open air and looking it over. It didn't look burned at all. "Pity this doesn't have some magical cure for evil, mysterious sicknesses, eh?"

"Would you stop it?"

"What?"

"Joking about this? It's serious."

"Yeah, take a life lesson, Sammy boy. If you can't be light in a dark situation, you don't make it."

"Well, that's clever. Did you make it up yourself?"

"S'matter of fact, I did, right on the spot, just now. Pretty good, right? I'm a right old fashioned prophet."

Sam grinned, despite his sour mood, and turned his attention to the metal box between them in the cockpit. It didn't look to be anything special—just a battered-looking kit with 'FIRST AID' written in huge letters across the top. None the less, Sam couldn't help but notice the involuntary shudder that trickled up his spine as he studied it. It wasn't an entirely new feeling… Sam knew he sometimes got feelings of forewarning before he and his brother set out for a job.

Dean looked back down at the box, slightly bewildered at Sam's apparent fixation. "What? There's nothing on it."

"What about in it?" Sam asked after a moment.

Dean flipped it over, preparing to undo the snaps that held it shut.

"No, wait," Sam said unexpectedly, causing Dean to stop again.

"Sam, what's wrong with you?"

"I'm getting this sort of…" He trailed off, meeting Dean's eyes.

"Premonition?" Dean offered.

Sam nodded slowly. "But not really... I don't know, I'm just feeling something about the kit... I can't even tell if it's a good feeling or a bad one. I guess you should just go ahead and open it."

Dean paused, and then clicked open the snaps, lifting the lid.

It didn't have the dramatic effect that Sam had been expecting from his sinister expectation, but he realized his fingers were clutching the side of the plane so tightly that his knuckles were white. When he comprehended that nothing red or misty was inside the kit, he let his hands relax. "What's in there?"

Dean sifted through the various medical objects with careful precision, extracting a thin slip of paper from inside. He frowned, his eyes running down the length of it, reading something that had apparently been hand written.

Sam waited patiently, but his brother seemed to feel the need to read and reread the message several times, so he gave a little push. "So?" He hinted.

Dean handed it over. "It's a message. I think one of the hikers wrote it and slipped it in here."

"That wouldn't make any sense. Why would they hide it all the way back there in the med kit?"

"Read it."

Sam obeyed, bringing the slip of paper more into the light so he could see the scrawled words more clearly.

_I think it's an actual conscious being. I've studied the short term affects on the other climbers, but there's nothing I can ascertain for certain until I have it in a lab and can study it within a controlled experiment. If this gets out to the well known scientists of the day there will be mass pandemonium, which I cannot allow. I will follow this through until the end, no matter the risks._

"That explains the need for secretly stashing it," Sam said, and continued to read.

_The physical appearance of this entity starts out as nonexistent. The only reason I knew something unusual was present was because during the first fifteen minutes of our being on the summit I felt an actual being pass my upper body, leaving a distinctly cold feeling in its wake. I suspected that it had been an unusually strong breeze initially, but less than a minute later I caught sight of a scarlet unit in the air directly in front of my face. It was a foot in length and less than three inches in width, and substantially transparent. It hovered for approximately 7 seconds, before descending to ground level and evaporating into invisibility. This phenomenon was followed by an icy feeling that began in my ankles, about the height at which the entity disappeared, and spread up through my body until it reached my head._

_I may be infected with some kind of unknown possession, but there is no way I will know until I return to the lab and test myself, as well as this metal box, which appears to be the unit's initial quarters, because it didn't show itself until after the box was opened._

_I know it's possible that in time this could become _

Sam looked up in confusion. "It just stops," He said, a little frustrated. "There's nothing more, he stops dead in the middle of a sentence."

"I think that little 'unit' of his started getting a little feisty at that point," Dean said grimly. "He may have been taken by the symptoms and forced to stow the paper at short notice and leave... or maybe he was with the hikers that were evacuated by the EMT's."

"No, he sounds like he knows what he's talking about, at least a little bit. I don't think he left with the other hikers. Remember? It says here that he's already observed the short term affects, so he must have been here longer than the others."

"You have a point. There's only so much research one can do in five minutes."

"You think the one who wrote this is Andy Thompson?"

"I doubt it. What's the probability that the one guy we really need to find is the one guy who's still alive?"

"Yeah, but we should find him and ask, just to make sure."

Dean got to his feet, watching the large group of tourists as they appeared below the crash sight on the trail. "Here come the vultures..."

"Damn..." Sam muttered. "That gives us about five point two seconds to keep searching."

"Well, after reading that this thing originated from the med kit, I'd say it's high time we hike on outta here until we have the appropriate clothing to deal with an invasive entity."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Do you really think we'll ever find an outfit that will keep something like this out?"

"Well, we can find something better than jeans, I hope."

Sam made to follow Dean out of the clearing and toward the group, but stopped mid-step. He felt something chilly brush past his ear. His eyes combed the area for any sign of movement, but he couldn't locate any, even though the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end and a shiver was running up and down his body from the surprising sensation. He reached up to touch the side of his face, where a strange feeling of lingering cold lingered ominously. He scratched at it.

"Something wrong?" Dean asked, looking back at Sam over his shoulder.

"No, but let's get out of here," Sam said loudly, stepping forward. Neither of them saw the small area of dark red fog that was hovering near the ground between Dean and Sam, or noticed as Sam stepped directly through it. Sam was all the way back onto the path before he felt the iciness in his toes. He looked down at his shoes and lower pant legs, but everything looked in order.

"Thompson will probably be at that house is Middlebury. We should find him. Make him talk, since now we have somewhat of an idea what we're dealing with," Dean said quietly as they joined the other hikers, who were all giving both of them distinctly disapproving glares for being the first ones to the crash sight. Dean faced them all squarely. "Who's the tour guide?"

A big man in the front stepped forward. "Tour guide's me. Roger Gavin. And you two shouldn't have hiked so far ahead of the group."

Dean assumed his most imposing stature. "Neither of us paid to be toured up a two mile high hill, Mr. Gavin. We're police officers. My name's Officer Harding, this is Officer Mason. This area is a secured crime scene until further notice, so please take this group back down to the base and don't come back here until tomorrow, best case scenario."

Gavin held up his hands. "Whoa, wait a moment, these people paid good money for this hike, you can't just"—

"Don't argue with us, please, it makes our jobs harder," Dean interrupted. "Just turn around and return to the Lodge. Officer Mason and I will follow you down and make sure you get there."

Roger Gavin had obviously experienced next to nothing with the law, even on television, because he didn't even demand to see badges. He reluctantly turned his group around and began herding them back down the trail. Sam and Dean heard several irritated remarks aimed at them, but ignored them.

"That was way too easy," Dean whispered sideways at Sam. "I've never gotten away with a police officer impression with so little effort before."

Sam didn't reply. He could feel icy numbness spreading with slow steadiness up his legs and through his thigh muscles, making them tremble slightly. The cold wasn't like anything he'd ever felt—not like standing outside in winter without a coat, or even being waste deep in a frozen pond—it was chilling to the bone, as though every cell affected was vibrating with bitter frost, shedding shards of ice onto the other cells and making them freeze like water. Sam shivered, his jaw clenched.

Dean frowned. "What's up with you?"

Sam reached down and slapped his knees, trying to regain feeling, but it was no use. The numb coldness had reached his waste, and Sam was now experiencing an odd aching that seemed to emanate from his very bones. "Yeah, something's wrong, I think," He said, his voice shaky.

Dean hurried back up the trail, filling the space between him and Sam with surprising speed. He reached his brother and bent his knees, trying to look Sam in the face, which was hard, because Sam was leaning over and rubbing his thighs somewhat frantically. "Sam, what is it?"

"My legs are freezing cold—but they're numb, I can't explain it, it's like the paper said. Damn! Jesus, it's cold!"

The information didn't really weight out correctly in Dean's brain, because the sickness couldn't have gotten Sam. Not that quickly. But whatever it was, something definitely had gotten him, and Dean felt a flare of fear ignite in his chest on his younger brother's behalf. "Can you walk?"

"I don't know, it feels like I can't take a step, but I probably can... Jesus Christ, I've never felt anything like this before!" The coldness was seeping sickeningly up through Sam's chest. He suddenly found it harder to draw air into his lungs, so he straightened up hastily and tried to take a big breath.

"Sam! Come on, let's go!" Dean gripped Sam tightly by the shoulder and tried to steer him down the mountain, but Sam was now experiencing something else.

He gasped, coughing. He couldn't get enough air. The oxygen seemed to be squeezed out of his lungs as the coldness leached up into his shoulders and neck.

Dean braced him, a rising feeling of panic gripping his heart. He could feel the skin on Sammy's neck, and it was clammy, and cold. Cold as the skin of a corpse. _Shit!_ Dean thought. "Sam, I need you to step when I step, ok? Just come with me, I'm completely holding you, ok? Just move your legs, so they don't get in the way."

Sam leaned more on Dean, his gasping for air lessoning slightly. "Dean—I can't—the air isn't thin enough"— He staggered down a few feet of the trail.

"Don't talk, Sam," Dean said quickly. "Don't talk, I'm going to get you down, I'm going to get you safe, ok?"

"It's too thick—don't be too near me—don't let it get you, too..." Sam thought the rest of it in his mind, because he couldn't spare any more oxygen on speaking. _Just let me stay here, or else it will get you, too!_ He felt a velvet darkness descending over his senses.

Dean almost fell sideways as Sam collapsed entirely in his arms, crumpling towards the ground, but Dean caught his balance in time to break both of their falls. The two of them were still for a moment, Dean staring down at the still face of his younger brother about two inches away from his own, and Sam lying still underneath Dean, breathing shallowly and trembling faintly. The next instant, Dean was on his knees, scooping Sam into a sitting position. The young man had doubted that he had the strength to carry someone as big as Sam, but that doubt had evaporated in the instant when he'd realized Sam's body was below him, lifeless, and sick. He reached an arm under Sam's knees and lifted him in one fluid motion, so that he was standing, holding Sam against his chest.

Sweat rolled down Dean's forehead as he started unsteadily down the trail, his brother in his arms.

**REVIEW AGAIN, CHUMS! MAN, I LUV JENSEN AND JARED! PLEASE, STOP ME FROM SAYING THAT, BECAUSE THEY'RE PROBABLY GAY TOGETHER! THAT'S MY LUCK, HUH? THE TWO HOTTEST GUYS IN THE WORLD ARE DATING EACH OTHER... MAYBE THERE'S A GOD, MAYBE THEY'RE NOT GAY...**

**OK, I'M REALLY MOVING ON... MUAH!**


	3. Bitter Voice of Guilt

**Disclaimer: I still don't own either of these Hottie McHots...**

**Sorry for waiting a couple days to update, I meant to do it sooner but school bit me in the ass so I had to go to the emergency room...anways...Oh yeah, and there is a small amount of swearing in this chappie as things get more intense. Luv you all!**

**ChapterThree: Bitter Voice of Guilt**

Andy Thompson lay in bed. His blond hair was matted and dirty, sticking to the cold sweat that stood out on his pale forehead. A woman sat in a chair by his bedside, rocking back and forth, holding knitting needles tightly in her fingers as though they might be about to try for an escape. Her face was worn and haggard.

It took a lot of strength for Andy to turn and look at the woman with somber eyes. "You don't have to stay, Emily."

"Of course I'm staying," She responded severely, although concern was obvious behind her dark eyes. "I'm not leaving you in a state like this. You can't even get out of bed on your own, let alone eat or shower!"

"You're staying here won't make the difference between life and death."

"How do you know, Mr. Thompson? You've had periods of remission in the last week, and all of them came around when _I've_ been here with you. The sickness may go down again, and then where would you be, if you have sent me home?"

Andy sighed, giving up. He knew he couldn't explain his situation to a maid like Emily Madders, but he wished he at least had someone to speak with. The sickness was obviously unnatural in some way, which had been made apparent up on the summit of Mt. Lafayette. Furthermore, Andy had devised a very primitive way of keeping it in check for short periods of time so that he could study his own diseased body in the lab, poking and prodding himself in the same fashion he used with his lab mice while trying to extract DNA or a virus. However, recently, the illness had grown so debilitating that he'd become bedridden, unable to move without splitting pains in his spinal chord and chest.

Andy wondered vaguely whether or not the others had come out alright yet. He'd heard a young man named Mr. Winchester that several of them, maybe four, had been cruelly unlucky. However, a hope, perhaps a naïve one, persisted in his heart for the others who had been exposed to this new phenomenon, and he would hold onto that hope as long as there were thoughts in his mind. That hope was what told him he couldn't go to the doctors and risk having all his research destroyed by unknowing, clumsy hands, not to mention having this illness spread to countless others.

A soft humming caught Andy's attention, bringing him gently back into his own bedroom within the company of Emily Madders. He eyed her in as playful a way as possible. "Well, if you're going to stay, you may as well make yourself useful. I'd like a cup of coffee."

"Now, Mr. Thompson, I don't think caffeine would do well in your system as of late."

"Emily, just bring me some coffee."

"It's your own digestive system you're attacking"—

"Emily!"

((At the Base of Mt. Lafayette))

Dean staggered off the trail and onto the gravel driveway, heaving breath into his lungs and trying to stay on his feet. Sam was like a dead weight in his arms, which by now felt deadened and useless. Somehow, though, Sam was still clutched tightly to his chest, and this encouraging thought spurred him onward toward the small Moosehead Lodge.

Someone strode briskly out of the lodge's big front doors, carrying a bundle of camping accessories and trying to write on a clipboard at the same time. "Oh, my God!" Roger Gavin exclaimed, spotting the two boys as he paused to check the sun's position. "What the Hell?" He ran to meet them, staring in confusion at the unconscious body of the young police officer he'd just met ontop of Lafayette.

"I need to get him inside," Dean ground out, gritting his teeth and coming to another grinding halt as his knees threatened to give way. "Somewhere there are no people!"

"What's wrong with the boy?" Gavin demanded, dropping the camping gear onto the gravel. "How is he injured?"

"Look, I'll explain it, if you'll just show me a place inside that's empty! Please, I need to get him inside!" Normally, Dean would have cringed at begging anything of a man like Gavin, (or any person, for that matter) but in a crisis, all normal sense of self seems to disappear as the main focus becomes someone other than yourself.

Gavin had finally gotten the point. His small eyes darted back and forth as his mind sifted through thoughts and places, finally coming to rest on the lowest level of Moosehead Lodge. Only employees were permitted in that area, so there wouldn't be a need to worry about people being present—(_Whatever the Hell the reason is that he doesn't want anyone else to help, _Gavin thought incredulously)—and there were several sofas on which the injured one could be settled.

"I know a place," Gavin said, turning back to Dean. "Give him to me, I can carry him inside."

"No!" Dean said, protectiveness flaring in the wake of Gavin's generosity. "I've got him, ok?"

"At least let me help you carry him."

Dean reluctantly did not object as Gavin grasped Sam's legs and hoisted half of the weight onto himself. They started toward the lodge as quickly as possible, Dean in the rear so that Gavin could lead the way. "Is this place close by?"

"It's right here. It's the lodge's basement, but you wouldn't know it was a basement." Gavin maneuvered Sam so that he could reach for the doorknob of a particularly weathered looking door on the side of the lodge, and he pushed it open. He backed slowly inside.

Dean lurched through the door behind Gavin, clinging onto Sam's shoulders as well as he could. His fingers were slipping. "I'm losing my grip!" He said. "Help me get him to the couch."

The two of them made their way to the sofa and laid Sam down as softly as they could. Dean hesitated a moment before he stood, finding himself staring once more at the torpid face of his brother, and at that moment he felt an unexpected pang of guilt.

_He was worried about this job. He wasn't certain about the hike today, and I thought we should go anyway. I wasn't careful enough, and because of it, something's happened to Sammy._

A more welcome (but less truthful) voice materialized in his head, arguing for his own justification. _There was no way you could have known you were dealing with such a highly invasive entity! You couldn't have stopped what happened; you had no way of knowing._

_But you should have recognized your unprepared situation and put this off until you both felt completely comfortable with it._

The other voice was silent. Dean groaned involuntarily, desperately upset that the accusing voice had won the argument. Damn this job! And everything that comes with it! Send everything to Hell, where it can all rot slowly and painfully! SEND THIS JOB TO HELL!

Dean felt his heartbeat slowly steadying, and he realized he had zoned out for a few moments, staring at Sam. The anger that had burned so strongly only split seconds before began to ebb away, leaving a worse feeling— vulnerable emptiness. Sam's breathing became a soft rhythm in Dean's mind… In…out…in…out… Breathing life-sustaining oxygen into lungs that just wouldn't cooperate… At least the pace of Sam's breathing seemed regular… That thought lodged itself in Dean's psyche, creating a brick wall between hope and guilt's bitter voice.

"So do you want to tell me what you two police officers are doing up here in the middle of nowhere without a cop car and without radios?"

Dean looked up, remembering where he was, and saw the room for the first time. It didn't look like a basement at all—in fact, it reminded him of an ornately furnished living room, complete with a velvety-red carpet and paintings on the walls. He shrugged in response to Gavin's question.

Gavin hunkered down in a chair on the other side of the room, staring intently at the two of them. His eyes raked Dean's ruffled appearance, taking in the dirty jeans and the mud on his knees from where he'd obviously kneeled on the trail. The younger one's face was damp with sweat, but other than that, Gavin could detect no signs of physical injury. _It must be under all the clothes,_ he thought decidedly. He made up his mind to find out. "You agreed you'd tell me what happened. I do have First Aid training, you know. But given the looks of your partner, there, I'd say he needs more than a Band-Aid and some Neosporin. I need to call an ambulance."

"Don't call an ambulance! I just—I have it under control, ok? I'm taking care of him; he shouldn't go to a hospital."

"What the HELL is going on? You sound like a couple of fugitives, running from the law or some crazy horseshit!"

No response. Dean had found it was much easier to sit and stare at Sam's closed eyes than to attempt speech for some hic from the woods, who wanted to bring doctors into this, and probably cops. _He still thinks we ARE cops, _Dean remembered numbly.

Gavin didn't give up. "I brought you here, I showed you this place. You owe me an explanation, buck. And furthermore, he DOES need an ambulance, despite what you might think, and if you're not going to be the one to call in for one, I will be!"

"Don't even think about it. Just let us be, alright? I need to take care of my brother; I can make him come around. He's alright, he just passed out, if I just stay here with him, he'll wake up." The astringent voice of blame threatened to break through the brick wall. He pushed it back.

"Hey, Officer Harding, I'm talking to you here."

"I don't give a shit!" Dean burst out furiously. "Just get out of here!"

Gavin faltered for a moment, and then stood and made his way over to the door. Just before stepping outside, he turned back, his expression softening. "I want to help you, boy. I don't want to see your partner hurt like that, either."

It took a very long, very thought-filled moment for Dean to make up his mind. Finally, he opened his mouth and spoke. "He's not my partner. He's my brother and neither of us are police officers."

Gavin didn't respond. His expression became unreadable as he walked slowly back over to his chair and lowered himself back into it.

Dean continued, the dam having been breached. "We're investigating something up on Lafayette, something incredibly serious that has put a lot of people in danger, and it's even killed. When I realized what had to be done, I had to lie to you, I had to pretend I was an Officer, or else you wouldn't have listened. All of those people would have been exposed to this thing. And don't ask me what it is, we don't even know yet."

"So… What happened to your brother? And what are your names?"

"Dean Winchester and my little brother is Sam. Honestly, I don't really know what's wrong with him, but I'm damn sure it has something to do with what we're looking into."

"Which is…?"

"I told you, I don't know! It's not your average virus, I can tell you that much…"

An incomprehensible mutter issued from the couch, and both Dean and Gavin sat bolt upright, watching Sam with rapt attention. Dean's heart was thumping so quickly in his chest he thought his ribs might break.

"Give him a little slap to the cheek," Gavin suggested, leaning in so that he could see properly.

Dean steadied his brother's face with one hand, holding him tenderly around the jaw and neck. With his other hand, he delivered a quick cuff to Sam's cheek, and then another. He knew he wouldn't hurt Sam—they'd been in fist fights with each other that rivaled European street fighting in the late 17th Century.

"I think he's coming around," Gavin said with baited breath.

Sam's eyelids quivered. His lips parted slightly. He muttered something again, but the words were unintelligible.

"Sam," Dean said quietly, "Sammy? It's me. Wake up, you're almost there, come on."

"Let him be, he's coming around on his own time."

"Don't tell me how to deal with my brother!"

Sam's eyes opened. He seemed to stare above Gavin and Dean for what seemed like an eternity, fixated blindly on the ceiling. Slowly, his eyes traveled downward and found Dean's own eyes, locking them in something that can only be described by experience.

"Hey, bro."

Dean was incredulous. "_Hey, bro?_ You almost gave me a heart attack, you mindless madman! I almost had a stroke!"

"Sorry."

"No—don't be sorry," Dean said hastily. "I just—I was worried."

Sam noticed the older, bigger man looming above Dean, watching him closely. "Who's he?"

"I'm Roger Gavin."

Dean filled in the missing spaces for Sam, re-accounting the tricky journey they had undergone in order to reach the lodge safely, and explaining the new extent of Gavin's knowledge concerning their identities. Not surprisingly, it didn't take long for Sam to start feeling a bit overwhelmed, seeing as his body felt as weak and shaky as jelly, so he cut his brother off. "Have you gotten a hold of Andy Thompson?"

The question threw Dean a little. He hadn't thought once about contacting Thompson since up on Lafayette's summit, but the reality dawned on him now that they needed to find someone who had more experience than they did. Sam would have to be extremely lucky to have gotten off easy and be well and healthy. Somehow, Dean suspected that 'lucky' was something never to related to either of the Winchester brothers in any context.

"Dean? Did you?"

"No, I didn't, yet. I've been watching over you, I didn't have time."

"You didn't have to watch over me, I wasn't going anywhere, was I?"

"I guess not, but you never know. You always do the sneakiest things behind my back, right when I turn around. How did I know you wouldn't take off for Vegas, win a million bucks, and elope? That would leave me with nothing but muddy jeans and two hotel rooms."

Sam grinned, which brought a welcome feeling of joy into Dean's world, temporarily suppressing the voice of dangerous guilt.

"While you two are having your happy reunion," Gavin said loudly, less than amused, "I'm still waiting for an explanation as to why you were investigating something so sketchy up there in the first place."

"We can't give you that," Dean said. "We don't even have one. Is there a phone in this basement?"

Gavin pointed to it, and Dean grudgingly left Sam's side to cross the room and pick it up.

((Andy Thompson's House))

Andy held the phone in his right hand, squeezing ridiculously hard, but he didn't notice his hand was white from strain. "Are you sure?"

He was sure, the caller said. It was definitely what had gotten the others. What did he know about it?

"Know? Is that a joke, Mr. Winchester? How can anyone possibly know anything about something so phenomenal and supernatural?"

Winchester had found the papers in the med kit within the crashed plane.

"Yes, I did write those, amazingly enough," Andy said quietly. "But they won't do anyone much good. I've figured out there's nothing that'll stop this thing."

On the other end of the line, Dean scowled in frustration. "You're still alive, aren't you, Mr. Thompson? All the others have died."

"I said you can't _stop_ the thing. I didn't say you can't slow it down, which I have managed to do in several steps."

"And if you don't share with me those steps, I will be forced to come to your house myself and make you share," Dean growled, sensing the man's need for secrecy. "You called me this morning, in case you have a problem remembering now. You called me and warned me about what we were facing. That means you care enough to try and help us."

Andy paused, bewilderment crossing his face. His eyebrows furrowed as he struggled to remember having had any such conversation this morning, let alone with this kid.

"Mr. Thompson?"

"You must be mistaken, Winchester. I never called you this morning."

"I don't find that amusing. We seriously need your help, my brother is infected, and I'll be damned before I let that thing that's inside him—or wherever it is—get worse."

"I'm not trying to amuse you. What I'm saying is simple: I did not call you this morning, I do not believe it would be safe to share with you the information I've found, and I wish you the best of luck."

Click. Andy hung up the phone, the smug expression sliding off his face like sap. He examined his pale, trembling fingers, which now had more of a blue tinge to them because of circulation malfunctions.

"I wouldn't be able to explain this to them, anyway," He said quietly to himself. They wouldn't understand the severely strange behavior that this entity seemed to live by. First of all, after absorbing itself into Andy's body, he would have expected it to be there and there alone. However, somehow, the entity had copied itself, or used some other lightning fast form of replication, because there was still enough of it to infect every other hiker on that trip. Not to mention this young Winchester boy, who probably didn't stand a chance.

**Review, chummie mc chums! I love getting your awesome reviews, it really makes my day : ) I'll try to have the next chappie up and running as soon as possible. Muah!**


	4. The Scientist

**Dislcaimer: The hottie mcHots are still not mine.**

**Hey chums! Thanks for all the lovely reviews! This chapter is really important, you have to read it. It explains a lot, and things really get started. I think it will be slow at first, reading the beginning of it, but stick with it, cuz other wise you won't understand!**

**Love you all!**

**Chapter Four: The Scientist**

The college stood out brightly, directly in the center of the drab Maine town of Bethel. The grass between buildings was cared for almost to the point of being perfect, lush and green, and the pine trees were tastefully placed around the sidewalks and paths. Only students who had exceptional academic history were allowed in here—the school couldn't afford to take on a student who wasn't 100 intense.

These were some of the reasons that Tom Hanson had first moved into Bethel as a professor at Goldridge. He had the education to profess science to college level students, and his daughter, Ashley, was only a couple years from graduating high school and moving on to college. As a professor, she would be openly accepted there, according to the college's policies.

Now, about four years later and weighed down by the four-ton chip on his shoulder, Hanson was living as a dorm parent in a male dorm building and trying to supervise his 22 year old daughter as she attended classes as WELL as working tirelessly on a break through that would rival all others in modern science. Because of Goldridge's vast scientific laboratories and libraries, Hanson had found it relatively easy to carry out the research needed to fill in all the empty spaces of his knowledge—the spaces that had been created by a single encounter with something everyone told him was impossible.

Hanson sighed, his thoughts roaming restlessly to his abandoned experiment, waiting for him down in Lab 2 on the second floor. He'd been forced to leave immediately to take care of an issue between two boys in the dorm, and when everything was solved, the sun was already sinking outside. Hanson decided the lab would have to wait until the morning, however much he regretted the idea.

This morning his need for answers had increased steeply as he realized there was nothing he could do to stop two young researchers—younger versions of Hanson himself, in his opinion—from putting themselves in serious peril. Not even his impersonation of an associate of theirs, a Mr. Andy Thomas, persuaded them to move onto something else.

His call tonight from the base of Lafayette had confirmed that the subject in question had tainted at least one of them. He knew he needed to intervene somehow… possibly share with them the slightly inadequate treatment he'd discovered… he couldn't let either of them die; his actions had already caused the deaths of seven people.

Someone knocked softly on the door. "Come in," Hanson said, sitting up and snapping out of his reminiscence.

A young woman peeked around the door, her deep chestnut hair tied messily back in a pony tail. "Hey, Dad," She said, coming fully inside and closing the door. "Where have you been?"

"Hi, Ash. I've been around—I had to deal with the two Evans brothers a little while ago, that was a mess."

Ashley Hanson raised her eyebrows. "You were dealing with the Evans's all day? Must have been a real problem. Were they at each other with clubs?"

"I can tell you're in one of your sarcastic moods, Ashley. Maybe you should get some sleep; word on the street is that you've got a pretty big test tomorrow."

"It's no big deal. I've got it covered, Dad. I'm here for a _reason_."

Hanson frowned. "What reason?"

"Dad, come on. What do you think? I haven't seen you in a week, and we live on the same campus!"

"Don't start that, honey, you know I'm extremely busy."

"So am I, but I still find time for the people I love."

"Love? You have a boyfriend?"

"No, Dad, I meant_ you._"

Hanson felt a distant hint of longing somewhere in the oceans of his mind, but it wasn't strong enough for him to cling onto. "Sorry, Ash. I do try. But I'm a professor and a scientist, and right now I'm working on something extremely important."

Ashley paused for a moment. "I know."

"Good."

"No. I mean, I know what you're researching right now. What you've been researching for so long."

Hanson felt his heart stop. _How could she possibly know that?_

"It's obvious, Daddy. Ever since you told me about what happened to you when you were young… I've been catching on. I didn't know how to tell you I knew. I knew you'd be mad. You are, right?"

"I—don't know."

"All I want is for you to be happy, and you used to be. When you were with me in Utah, just you, and me, and Roger, living in the country. You _loved_ it there. When we moved here you disappeared into your own reality, chasing after some apparition of a _'parasite of fire'…_ Dad… Come on."

Hanson could feel the ancient bubbles of defensiveness perk up inside him. "I'm not chasing it, Ash, I'm researching it."

"You can't research something that's not there."

"But you can research something that people don't believe is there, but really _is_ there."

Ashley stood there for a moment more, and then turned without a word and left, closing the door gently behind her. Hanson ground his teeth.

_It is there. I experienced it, I know. And I might be close to finding the remedy for this unnatural abomination I created… It was never meant to be anywhere except for my laboratory… _The fire with which he was working was supposed to be highly contained. It hadn't happened the way he had planned.

_The Winchester boys…_ Ashley's skepticism of his life's work had convinced Hanson in a matter of moments of what he needed to do. It didn't matter whether or not his peers believed him—all that mattered now was that nobody found out it had been he to set the supernatural parasite loose. The young researchers needed his help, and soon.

((Moosehead Lodge))

"Would I lie?" Sam asked, a grin curling his lips. "I swear to you! I feel absolutely fine!"

Dean eyed him suspiciously. "I can't tell if you're telling the truth, or if you're just seriously desperate to get out of this basement."

"If I was dying, I think I would feel a little bit sicker than this, alright? I probably didn't get the full blast of the thing—like, only a part of it got into my body, or something."

The shred of hope that had been so determined to stay grounded within Dean's mind was starting to blossom tentatively. Sam looked ok, he was speaking easily, and he was acting unharmed… He had regained use of his legs only a couple of minutes before, but now they were in fine shape as far as Dean could tell.

"Ok. I believe you _feel _fine. But that has nothing to do with what's really going on in there, got it?"

"I know. Now all we have to do is get to Thompson's house."

Dean nodded. "That would be an awesome plan, Sammy, if we only had a car."

Both of them waited a moment, probably for effect, and then slowly turned their heads to stare pointedly at Gavin where he still sat in the chair.

The man knew at once what they wanted, and he didn't entirely object, but he needed to know something, first. "Before I drive you anywhere, I need to ask you a question."

"Shoot for it."

"I need to know hear from you the real reason you were on Lafayette this morning."

Silence.

Gavin cleared his throat. "It's important to me, it really is. I've had more worldly experience than you might think."

Dean thought back dryly to Lafayette, and how Gavin had allowed him and Sam to get off scot-free as cops, without even asking for identification. "Worldly experience, eh?" He couldn't keep the skepticism out of his voice.

"I think I might know what case it is you're on."

"Is that so?"

"I'm serious, Dean. I need to know if this has anything to do with a… with the deaths of the seven hikers who came here to see the crashed plane."

Dean and Sam glanced at each other. "Look, Mr. Gavin," Sam said. "We really don't know anything yet."

"And we won't find anything else until you help us out and drive us to this man's house."

"I need to hear it out of your mouths for me to believe it."

"What are you talking about?" Sam demanded.

Gavin took a deep breath and began to explain. "My brother called me last night, very late, asking if two young men had signed up for today's hike, and I told him yes, they had. He said he had to go—no explanation—he just hung up the phone. He hadn't told me, but I knew it had something to do with his experimentation… He just gets this different tone in his voice when he's dealing with that kind of thing."

"You're brother's a scientist?" Dean asked.

"Has been for several years. He's been working on this especially important job for a while, now… maybe eight months, or so."

Sam wondered impatiently what this could have to do with anything. "A job?"

"Well, I guess that's not the proper word—I'm no scientist, I have no idea how you refer to it. He's been busy because… well, something happened in one of his experiments. The test subject got loose. The entire warehouse burned down in its escape."

Dean felt uneasy. "Your brother is experimenting with subjects dangerous enough to destroy a building?"

"He didn't know he was, though!" Gavin defended. "He was working with two things at one time, trying to join them… and it worked. They became one. You'd have to ask him for the details."

"This sounds really unusual, Mr. Gavin."

"I'm not. Nobody's ever believed my brother when he's told them of the nature of his research. They all think he's loony, and they probably have good reason. Anyway, after that first call from Tom, he called back. He told me that the two young men coming to the mountain in the morning were researching the exact same thing he was. They were researching the supernatural entity that potentially landed with the plane, because they also believed it was responsible for the seven deaths."

Neither Dean nor Sam immediately registered what had just met their ears, and it took a few moments of ringing silence for its full gravity to fall. Dean's jaw dropped and Sam tried to stand up so quickly that he knocked over a small table beside the couch with a huge crash. Both of them scrambled to regain their composure, trying at the same time to re-read the information in their heads and extract a different meaning.

"Are you alright?" Gavin asked.

"You—I—we thought"—

"You didn't say—did you? I mean, you couldn't"—

"Wait, what the Hell did you just say?"

Gavin nodded knowingly. "I knew it. That's what you're looking into right now."

"You couldn't possibly know that, could you?"

"How do you, anyway?"

"Tom is a scientist, like I said, working to join two things together. He was working with… what I refer to as 'ghosts' (and whenever I do he gets angry)… he calls them angry spirits, or his 'subjects'. The other element he was working with was fire. He let loose an angry spirit infused with flame onto an unsuspecting public."

Dean felt his heart thudding in his chest. This thing was _man-made?_ "Did he tell you this?"

"I saw it with my own eyes, before it escaped into the Portland Jetport."

The puzzle pieces were beginning to click together slowly. The creature was a spirit joined with the properties of flame… It had escaped into a Jetport, which was how it had been in the plane that crashed, and probably why the scientist suspected it of being here in the first place, especially after having heard of all the deaths in the area.

Sam, who was still sitting rigidly on the couch beside Dean, had an awed expression on his face. However, the looking quickly transformed into one of angry incredulousness. "You _knew_ it was there? You knew! And still, you took people up the mountain!"

"If I had known it was still there, I never would have taken anyone up there again!" Gavin said hastily, raising his hands. "Tom told me the subject would probably be transported to a different location by its first host. That it would only infect one person at a time."

"Looks like he was a little confused," Dean said, his voice a little cold.

"Obviously. But I refused to believe him, about the two of you researching the same exact thing he is until I heard it from you. I thought Tom was desperate for someone else on his side… I see now I was wrong."

Sam was still nettled. "Well, now you know. So how do we get to your brother's place?"

"He lives all the way up in Maine."

Dean cut Sam off before he could reply sharply. "We don't care, Mr. Gavin. We need to get there. If you're right about Sam's…situation…if it's really not gone, then I'm not wasting one more second sitting here. Where's your car?"

Gavin stood and the brothers followed him back out through the door and across the parking lot to a small, red Jetta. As Sam walked, he felt again that ominous, cold numbness in his toes. His heart skipped a beat, and he jogged to catch up with Dean and Gavin.

**Review, chumbuckets! Love you all! Muah!**


	5. To Bethel

**Disclaimer: Here come the Hottie McHots, served up on a plate and ready to be EATEN! Sadly, I have to get permission to eat them because I don't own either of them...**

**ENJOY! And review, chums, yall are slacking! I'm disappointed in you... jk. : )**

**Chapter Five: To Bethel**

Sam stared out of backseat window, watching the sidewalks, trees, and shrubberies fly past. His thoughts were wandering near and far, and he wasn't able to pull them into check. He remembered the odd moment of suspended blackness as he had lost consciousness back on Lafayette… The strange blanket that had slid slowly off of his mind as he had awakened on the basement couch… It all seemed so surreal, so unreal.

"You ok?" Dean asked, turning around in the front seat to look at Sam. "You're looking pale again."

"I'm ok," Sam said, a little quietly—it was a lie. The same exact coldness that had seeped through his body on the mountain was now tingling in his legs, moving much slower than it had before, but definitely moving upward.

Dean took a deep breath. "I don't want you to think about it too much, ok? We're going to get rid of this thing, I promise."

"I know."

Dean glanced at Gavin. "We almost there?"

Gavin checked his watch and bit his lip, thinking. "Yeah. If I gun it over sixty, we'll probably be there in two hours, or so."

"In two hours, I could have three heart attacks and Sammy could slip into a coma."

"Not Sammy, it's _Sam,_ Dean," Sam protested weakly, knowing it was his brother's prized tradition to ignore that request.

The roads weren't too slippery, considering the recent snow fall which had left about two inches of powder soft snow along the banks of the highway and on the pavement's surface. Gavin slowed a little and the small Jetta curved smoothly off the highway and onto Exit 13, to Topsham and Bethel. It would only be a few minutes now.

Sam gasped softly in the back seat, and Dean looked at him again. His younger brother's eyes were closed and he was leaning back against his seat, one fist clenched around the shoulder strap of his seat belt and the other opening and closing around the sleeve of his jacket.

"Sam?"

"It's coming again, but don't stop the car," Sam said shakily. "I'll be fine, I was fine last time."

"Shit! Gavin, speed up."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to block the panic that was once more inching its way up his spine. Dean unclasped his seat belt, climbed determinedly into the back seat, and landed with a _thump_ beside Sam. "It's ok, bro," Dean said in his best attempt at calm control. "You've been through it once before, you can handle it."

Sam nodded without opening his eyes. The frosty coldness had reached his lower stomach. He winced, squirming where he sat and pushing harder against the back of the seat.

"Remember what happens?" Dean said, trying to keep Sam coherent as long as he could. "You remember, right? You have a little trouble breathing, and then you fall asleep, that's all. You'll be absolutely fine."

"I'll be fine…" The coldness gripped his ribs.

"Sam, just keep listening to me, ok? We're almost to Bethel, just an hour, or so. Just keep listening to me, don't forget I'm right beside you."

"It's so cold—my chest—I can't get enough air, Dean"—

"I know, I do, Sammy, you're going to be fine"—

Dean took Sam through the agonizing experience for the second time that day, quickly providing his own lap as a pillow for Sam when the boy finally fell unconscious. As his hand felt the cold sweat on Sam's forehead, he couldn't help thinking, _if I talk to this scientist and it really was him that started this situation, I'm going to kill him with my bare hands. I don't give a damn whether or not he meant to do it. _"Speed the Hell up, Gavin, why the fuck are we slowing down!" They were on a road that wound through thick trees, and the scarce light that shone from the moon overhead was blocked by them. The headlights only provided vision of the area directly ahead.

"Why do you think?" Gavin asked, shooting a frustrated glance back at Dean.

Dean turned his eyes to the road. An SUV was parked broadside to the traffic lanes, blocking both directions. Dean clenched his fists in anger. "Run off the road, go around him! We don't have time for this!" Sam's head and shoulders were resting across Dean's lap and he looked peaceful—but Dean knew that wasn't the way of it.

Gavin was peering intently through the windshield glass, a scrutinizing expression on his face. Slowly, something dawned on him and his face relaxed. "Thank God."

"What!"

"That's my brother Tom's car. He met us half way."

((Inside Tom Hanson's SUV))

"When we get back to Goldridge you're going straight to bed."

"That's not your decision, Daddy."

"You shouldn't have come with me."

"You agreed. Besides, I wanted to see what was more important than your own daughter."

Hanson took a steadying breath and then opened the driver's side door, clambering out onto the freezing, snowy pavement. His hope to stop Roger and the two young researchers on this road had been successful. Ashley followed him, eyeing the small, red Jetta with skepticism as they walked briskly across the space between the two vehicles.

**I'm DEATHLY sorry it's so short, chummie mc chums. I guess you'll have to find something to do to pass the time between now and Chapter Six...Oh, here's an idea... REVIEW! Love you. Muah!**


	6. Examination Commenses

**Disclaimer: I don't own either one of the Hottie McHots. And I have a new name for them: Hay in a Can. It's 'Hot' in a can mixed with 'Gay' in a can, which makes 'Hay' in a Can! Heh, clever, eh? Like I said before, they're waaaay too hot to be straight. Ah, well... two hot guys at with each other are almost as hot as one of them at it with me... not quite, but almost...**

**Chapter Six: Examination Commenses**

Sam's hands were limp at his sides and his eyes were closed. His head felt like a stone, resting against something soft—but he knew he must be crushing whatever he was lying on, because his skull weighed a million tons. _I wonder where Dean is… _He thought vaguely. _Dean was here a minute ago… We were talking…_ There was a tantalizing thought that was riding the crest of Sam's brain waves, teasing him and taunting his inability to remember, but Sam couldn't reach out and grab it. It was bad, ominous… like a dark shadow that hovered over what would have otherwise been contented sleep.

_My ribs hurt. I should probably wake up now, and find Dean._

His heart beat steadily against his ribs. _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

_Shut up,_ Sam told it irritably. _You're ruining my train of thought._

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

In the moment that followed, which seemed to last for longer than the longest eternity, the memories flooded Sam's brain explosively, erupting into his recollection like a seething volcano. _Lafayette—the crashed plane—Dean and I—the mist in the air—couldn't breathe—woke up on a couch—the scientist—the _'Parasite of Fire'—_I need to find Dean! Why isn't he here? Wait—my eyes are closed! I'm asleep! No, I'm not, I'm unconscious, I'm still passed out! Wake up, Sam, you have to find Dean, he might be infected now, because of you! Wake up! WAKE UP!_

With a great effort, Sam pulled himself from his place between awake and asleep. His eyelids flickered open. "Dean?" He croaked as loudly as he could.

Nearby something moved quickly and suddenly Dean's face was inside Sam's field of vision. "Sammy?"

Relief rushed through Sam's senses and he took a deep, shaking breath. "You're ok!"

"Of course I'm ok! Are you ok?"

Sam nodded slowly, pleased to realize circulation was returning slowly to his body as it woke up. His neck muscles felt stiff and frigid, but as he moved them, they began to tingle with the warm blood of life. "I feel like I got run over by a cart horse, though."

"You look like you got run over by a _train_, little brother."

"Wow, I love how comforting that is to hear."

Dean grinned, unable to contain his joy that Sam was once again awake, and helped him to clumsily maneuver upward into a sitting position. It was only when Sam was seated upright, secured behind a sturdy, black seat belt, that he realized they were no longer in the small backseat of the red Jetta—instead, they were in way back of a vast SUV. There was one person sitting two seats ahead of them, and two others in the front seats. The space between Sam and the front of the vehicle was spacious, reminding Sam uncomfortably of what the inside of a limousine would look like. "Where the Hell are we?" Sam whispered nervously, leaning back a little, farther into the shadows. "Do we know those people up there?"

"Don't worry," Dean assured him. "We're in Tom Hanson's car. Gavin's up there with him, sitting in the passenger seat."

"How did we get into Hanson's car? I thought Hanson lived in Bethel."

"He met us half way here. Said this was too urgent, and it called for immediate assistance from him and him alone. That's a direct quote, by the way. He's driving us somewhere closer than the college is."

"Where?"

"I'm not sure…" Dean looked slightly resentful as he said it. "Hanson said he didn't have time to explain."

"Well, how long was I out this time?"

"Thirty minutes, or so."

Sam was slightly surprised. "That's a lot less time than when it happened on Lafayette! I could be getting better, Dean!"

"No, it's not that." Dean said heavily, and he held up an enormous, clear pack of water upon which droplets had condensed and were dripping steadily. "Hanson told me to put this on your chest and let the water seep out of the little hole for fifteen minutes, so I did."

"What! Why?"

"I guess this thing is repelled by water. I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it? The thing is partly made of fire."

"How come I'm not soaking wet, then, if you were water-logging me for fifteen minutes?"

Dean looked up front. "Mr. Hanson, you're better at explaining this than I am." He turned to Sam. "I haven't gotten a chance to talk to this guy yet. I still have to find out what his involvement is in all this."

The man behind the wheel cleared his throat loudly. His voice was crisp and clear, projecting assertively to the way back. "The parasite inside you feeds on heat and warmth. It needs those things to survive. That's why you get that feeling of cold numbness whenever it is attacking your immune system. What it's doing is draining your body of heat and energy for its own survival. It will only need to do this once every three hours, or so. The rest of the time, it will lie dormant along your spinal cord and brain stem."

Sam found the matter of fact way in which Hanson was speaking highly irritating. "So how come I'm still bone dry and I feel like I haven't had water in a couple millennia?"

"If a person was able to discern his body temperature by feeling his forehead with his own wrist, you would know why you're not still wet from the water-pack. You're body is so dehydrated and drained of moisture that your epidermis is at a point at which it will literally _absorb_ moisture in order to keep you alive. One might think that as long as the Parasite of Fire is dormant for three hours between system attacks, one is safe, because one's body is given the chance to rehabilitate. This is not the case—a body can only go so long having its energy and heat depleted. Your body will stop being able to replenish itself if this goes on too long."

"Ok, I think that's enough," Dean said roughly, turning back to Sam. "Don't listen to that kind of talk; it won't do you any good, Sammy."

Sam opened his mouth to answer.

"On the contrary," Hanson interrupted, "It would be better for your brother to face the reality of his situation than it would be for him to remain in the fictional, easy world of 'everything is ok, it will be alright.'"

"Dad, stop it. You don't know what they're going through."

Sam realized there was another person in the car, other than Hanson and Gavin. A young woman was sitting in the seat right behind the passenger's side, speaking severely to Hanson as though she were a mother scolding her children. She had chestnut colored hair that gleamed dully in the faded moonlight, and it was held back with a shiny clip so that it only fell down to her neck.

"Ashley, if you actually understood what is going on here, I might be inclined to consider your opinions."

"I do understand. You forget, I've been spying on your lab work for some time, now."

"I didn't forget, believe me."

In the way back, Sam shot a questioning look at Dean.

"That's Hanson's daughter, Ashley. She's a student at his college," Dean provided in a hushed voice. "One of the reasons I haven't interrogated this scientist guy yet."

Ashley and her father were still arguing, and their voices drifted back to the brothers, who both tuned out the disagreement and focused on the trees rushing past. There is an odd hypnotism that accompanies driving on a star-lit night along a deserted, forest road… Something not quite explainable, but both Dean and Sam knew how it felt. It felt calm. Peaceful. As though for one moment, poised in time, there was no such thing as danger or loss. The moon knew a language that did not include 'death' or 'hurt', and for once, they could hear the soft conversations of the stars…

"Unbuckle your seat belts," Gavin called back to them, startling them both. "We're there."

((Andy Thompson's Bedroom))

Andy struggled for his last breaths, feeling the sweet, fresh air as it swirled inside his aching lungs, and letting it rattle inside him for as long as was physically possible. He knew he was dying. His heart beat was slowing, so as to preserve oxygen, and his toes and fingers were quickly numbing. His body was saving the warm blood for his vital organs, because not enough of it was being pumped to supply his entire body.

_I'm not going to call anyone,_ Andy thought stubbornly. _It's too late, anyway. I've come this far without telling… I won't die a failure. The secret will die with me, and so will everyone that has been infected._

The phone rang. It was a shrill, penetrating blast of sound. Andy didn't even lift his hand. It wouldn't have been much use, though, even if he had tried—the skin had turned gray and dead, and he no longer had control of the movement in his fingers or wrist. His right hand and lower forearm had literally died.

It rang again. _Brrring…Brrring…Brrring…_

"Shut the Hell up, you piece of garbage," Andy muttered scratchily. He refused to spend his last moments on earth listening to the irritating sound of a telephone.

At last it stopped ringing. Andy's chest muscles relaxed and he sunk deeper into the pillow on his bed. The breath was coming even harder now, and he found it difficult to form a clear, coherent thought. _Here it comes,_ he thought hazily. _The moment of truth. Are those psychics I've seen on TV telling the truth about the afterlife, or are they just frauds? _A chuckle at his own humor was lost on a sudden onset of violent coughing. The hacking subsided, but now every last ounce of physical strength in his body had drained.

_If only I had found out sooner… I could have saved myself, and then researched on the others to discover the root of the parasite. I wouldn't be lying here right now, dying, in my very own bed._

Another vicious round of coughing seized his body, leaving him even emptier and weaker than before.

_It was so simple… So miraculous, I should have seen it coming from over a mile away…I thought at first that since the thing was afraid of water, all I had to do was jump in a lake, or something—good thing I didn't do that before I uncovered what would have happened to me!_

_One little sip of this stuff… Or one tiny injection… It's so obvious to the mind of a scientist, and yet I overlooked it for so long. The parasite needs for the body's brain to be highly active, producing sufficient amounts of energy. It's so simple!_

_BRRRING! BRRRING! _

"God damn you!" The phone had jarred Andy so harshly that his mind had slipped out of its pre-death hibernation and he was once again fully awake. However, even as he thought this, he could feel the blanket of darkness once more settling warmly over his senses, and this time, not even the blasting ring of the phone would revive him.

((A Science Lab in an Abandoned Warehouse in Maine))

"He's not picking up." Dean snapped the cell phone closed and turned to Sam and the others. "He must be asleep."

Hanson chuckled. "Asleep is your word for it, sonny. Dead's mine."

"I'm not really in the mood to appreciate sick minded humor," Said Dean dryly. "My brother is sick, and all I care about right now is figuring out how to fix him."

"Fix him? Nobody's going to 'fix him', take my word on it. We'll be lucky if we even get a lead on how to _start_ dealing with this."

"We're going to figure it out, Hanson. Got it?"

"I understand we're going to try"—

"DON'T YOU TRY TO WORM YOUR WAY OUT OF THIS ONE, HANSON!" Dean was at Hanson's throat within a second of the man's response, pushing him against the wall. In any other given circumstance, Hanson wouldn't have lost his balance, but Dean had been so abrupt and surprising that he'd caught Hanson off-balance.

"I'm not worming my way out of anything! I can't promise you we'll get this thing out of him!"

"If you don't…" Thoughts and ideas were pouring like water into Dean's mind. Thoughts about what he would do to Hanson if the man couldn't help Sammy. "I know you caused this whole thing, Hanson. Gavin told me. So if you're planning on 'trying your best', and that's all, I promise you'll regret it."

A hand on his shoulder brought Dean back into the cold, dingy warehouse lab, and he glanced back. Sam was reaching out, a pleading expression on his face. "Nobody planned for this to happen. It just did. We can't be successful unless we're all in this together. Right? That's what you tell me. 'A house divided against itself cannot stand'. Lincoln or something."

The fury Dean had felt for Hanson dissolved instantly as he realized how Sam must be feeling. The boy's face was ashen, but his determination to remain fair and positive was like a light in the darkest of tunnels. Dean drew away from Hanson, rubbing his forehead.

Hanson moved slightly away from the wall, and Ashley pushed past the two brothers. "Are you alright?" She asked quickly.

"I'm fine. It's understandable that Mr. Winchester is having a little trouble handling this." Shooting a calculating look at Dean and Sam, Hanson walked toward the examination table in the center of the room. "We need to get started."

Sam watched him nervously, not moving. "What's first?"

"I need to study you're body, what do you think? Don't question my scientific method, just do as I say."

Dean objected, "Scientific method? This isn't science—this is my brother."

"Do as I say, or all hope could be lost for Sam."

Dean reluctantly let go of the fold of Sam's jacket that he had been gripping, and Sam walked slowly out into the middle of the dark room toward the single, luminous examination light.

**Hey Chummingtons! I love you all, and I hope you review with wonderful, flowery praises of my writings, telling me I'm Godly and wonderful and amazing... Anyway, I think I got my point across. REVIEW!**


	7. It Will Work In Theory

**Disclaimer: I don't own either of these specimins of 'Hay in a Can' (see previous chapter for definition) but I'm working on that sad fact. Maybe someday they'll be mine...**

**Alright, Chumberlans, this chapter is finally UP AND RUNNING! You chums out there who drool over Dean/Sam angst--this is your spot. This chapter is brimming over with the stuff! Heh, I think yall will like this one. Enjoy!**

**Chapter Seven: It Will Work. In Theory.**

Ashley Hanson didn't even realize that she had been sitting and staring at the same corner of glassed wall for over a minute. Her eyes were glazed. She knew about her father, and how he had been truthful all along—in the SUV he had explained everything. The revelation, for some reason, was just sinking in. All those years that he put up with people laughing and scorning him, whispering insults behind his back, calling him a loony…

_And I believed them…_ Ashley thought sadly. _I should have listened to my Dad. I believed a bunch of prep losers before I believed my own father._

_I wonder if it would have been different between us all these years if I had only listened to him…? Would he actually have wanted to spend time with me? Maybe it's my fault that he never does, because he didn't think he could trust me! He _couldn't_ trust me, it's obvious. I wouldn't have trusted me. _

She heaved a great sigh, completely unaware of the scene taking place across the large warehouse room.

Sam stood in front of Hanson nervously, watching the man's face and wondering when he would give an instruction. Hanson looked intent, as though he no longer knew that Sam, Dean, and his daughter were in the same building. "That's the first option, obviously…" He muttered pensively, scratching his chin with one hand. "Of course, if that's not successful… Yes, I think so … Yes; it's one of the few things that might." He strode around the lab table to a small kit, from which he extracted a small packet. He read the label silently.

"Mr. Hanson?" Sam ventured.

"What?"

"I don't know what I should be doing—do you want me just to stand here?"

Hanson walked back around to Sam's side of the table and cleared his throat. "First, I want your shirt and jeans removed. Leave on the boxers. Nothing else."

Sam quickly did as he was told, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it aside onto the floor. He felt awkward as he pulled down his jeans, his mind flashing to Ashley, who was still secluded in the corner. _Don't be stupid, Sam,_ he thought dryly. _There are more important things at stake here than your dignity._

Once he was completely unclad, except for the pair of gray boxers, Hanson came forward with several sticky medical pads that were wired intricately into a large, black screen. He placed the pads strategically on the bare skin of Sam's body—his shoulders, his pectoral muscles, his abdomen, and his upper thighs. They were clammy, and they pinched his skin a little, but Sam was oblivious to the trivial discomfort.

"Lie down on the table, on your back," Hanson ordered, still reading the label of the packet.

The crisp, cold feeling of the lab table made Sam flinch as he obeyed. He felt extremely vulnerable with his bare stomach and torso completely exposed to the stagnant air—he had the urge to roll onto his side and curl up. He lay still and silent as his heart thudded heavily in his chest.

Dean, who had been standing a couple of yards away, watching—against his better judgment—was now unable to stay away. He advanced to the side of the lab table opposite Hanson. He wanted to stay as far away from the briskly-speaking scientist as he could. He looked down at Sam, whose face clearly conveyed the worry he felt.

"Hey," Dean said quietly.

Sam grinned half-heartedly. "Hey."

"How are you feeling?"

"Never better, man. I feel like I could jump on a horse and ride up Everest, right this very second."

"Trust my brother to lighten up the mood," Dean said fondly, but his chuckle held a distinct undertone of sorrow. Both of them recognized it.

Hanson was at work, with his back turned to Sam and Dean, nimbly plugging the wires that trailed off of Sam's body into outlets on the black screen. Sam wanted to shift—he hated being so still—but he forced himself to deal with it. Hanson should be done soon.

The scientist narrowed his eyes, and then flipped a switch. The entire screen lit up instantly. It threw an eerie, green light across Dean and Sam, who were both waiting with bated breath and a mixture of fear and curiosity.

Hanson pressed another button. Sam felt the patches on his skin tug sharply. He winced, expecting pain, but the sensation disappeared quickly, leaving him more confused than ever.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"Nothing, I just thought the patches yanked at me for a second…"

Hanson spoke without turning around. "The electromagnetic patches sent a wave through your body, and from that wave we are able to pick up an image that is even more accurate than images gathered with sonar." He stood aside, and the brothers realized that a picture had taken the place of the previous vast, green emptiness on the screen. Sam could make out the bones of his rib cage, curling around his skeleton, and he could clearly see his pelvic bone, lower down. However, when his eyes fell on the small disks of his spinal chord, he frowned darkly. "What the Hell is that?" He asked.

"This," Hanson said, indicating the solid, oblong object positioned straight up along Sam's spine, snuggled in amongst the disks, "Is our little friend."

Dean stared at the screen in disgusted loathing. Where there should have been muscle tissue and the bone of the spine, there was nothing but an ugly, black, stick-like—_thing_. It wasn't moving. It looked like a torpid eel waiting in a cave for an unsuspecting fish to swim its way and become its meal.

Sam wasn't saying a word. He was staring at the black parasite on the screen, his expression unreadable, but his fists closed tightly around the edges of the table. Dean wanted to reach out and put a hand on his younger brother's shoulder, but he resisted. _Don't make this harder on yourself, Dean,_ he thought sternly. _Sammy's going to be fine._

Hanson finally turned around to face them. He looked assertively from Dean to Sam and back again. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave for a few minutes."

"What!" Dean exploded angrily.

"Don't argue. I need to be completely undistracted. During this next stage of examination, I need to decide which of the two treatments I believe to be most promising. You can sit over with my daughter, if you want to. But I can't have you here."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but then remembered his ultimate goal: help Sam get better. _Just do it, Dean. If Sam will have more of a chance with you not next to him, then you can't be next to him. It's only a few minutes._ Dean looked down at Sam. "You ok if I step away for a little?" He whispered.

"I'm fine, Dean, honestly. I think this guy knows what he's doing."

"If you need anything, just call me, ok?"

"I promise. I'm fine."

Dean forced his feet to carry him out of the small circle of white light and across the warehouse, into the shadows. The walls were so much more ominous in the dark, and the presence of a large, glass cubicle in the corner strengthened Dean's sense of unease. He found Ashley sitting against the wall, staring at the glass booth. She, too, looked extremely glum. "Hey," Dean said hesitantly.

She glanced up in surprise. "Oh, hey. Sorry—I didn't hear you walk up."

"No big deal. We've all got a lot on our minds."

Ashley sighed. "We sure as Hell do."

Dean couldn't help himself from looking over his shoulder to check that Sam was still alright. As satisfied as possible, he turned back to Ashley. "I don't know you very well, but if you want to talk, I know how to listen."

That's all it took. Ashley had needed to vent for an hour now, and the words and thoughts brewing in her head were almost enough to make her scream. "Ever since I was fifteen my father and I have lived in Bethel, and Roger has lived at Moosehead Lodge. He and my Dad used to be really close, but I guess it was all the stuff about Dad's research that turned Roger away. So that's when Dad and I moved here—him as a professor and me as a sophomore in high school. After I graduated, I went to Goldridge—where Dad teaches—and I thought that would be really awesome, because finally Dad and I would get to spend a lot of time together, but I didn't count on his being so obsessed with the research. He worked on it every single day…" She trailed off, looking despondent.

"What?" Dean pressed.

Ashley swallowed a lump in her throat. "The most I ever saw him in any one week was four times, all of them at night, after curfew."

Dean looked away. "I'm sorry. That must be tough."

"Yeah… And also, just because I had such high expectations… it was like a blow to the face, you know? Realizing that what you've been working toward for so long is right in front of you, but you can't have it. Ever. I wish I would have believed him when he trusted me enough to tell me about this crazy parasite stuff, way back in the beginning… Back when it mattered, I guess. It can make you feel really lonely. I just wish he would listen to me, too… Not be afraid to show how much he loves me once in a while. He does love me, I know he does… He just doesn't understand it."

Dean nodded. "I know what you mean. Now that you say it, I've acting like that—how your Dad is—with my brother, Sam. For a while. You know, not being able to let him be close to me. He was always the one who wasn't afraid of the love we have as brothers, and I was always the one to laugh it off and change the subject… I'm sure I've made him feel lonely at times, like the way you feel about your father." Dean felt remorse squeeze his chest and stomach painfully. He forced back the hotness that was threatening to bring tears of grief to his eyes as the reality of Sam's predicament hit him for the thousandth time in two days. "If I could go back in time right now, and treasure our time with each other for as long as I could…"

Ashley met his eyes. "Don't talk like he's dying, Dean. Your brother's going to be ok."

Dean sighed quietly. He wanted to tell her that he already knew that, but the hope was so fragile that he feared it would vanish if he said anything out loud.

"WINCHESTER!"

Dean leapt to his feet, almost too quickly, regaining his balance hastily and focusing in on Hanson across the warehouse. "What is it?" Dean called, his voice cracking.

"Get over here, Dean! Ashley, you stay where you are!"

Dean sprinted across the floor and came to a screeching halt at Sam's side. "Sam?"

"Dean," Sam replied, and Dean was relieved just to see that Sam was conscious—but something else was wrong. Sam's chest and arms were drenched in sweat and his entire body was quivering strangely. His eyes were slightly red. "I feel pretty strange, though"—

"What the Hell did you do to him?" Dean demanded ferociously, rounding on Hanson. "What's wrong with him? Is he ok?"

"I simply injected him with a chemical of my own creation. The chemical induces a natural reaction in the human brain"—

"You _drugged_ him?"

"You both gave me permission to decide on a treatment and take steps to achieve it. That's all I did."

"Well if this causes a natural reaction, why is Sammy so sick all of a sudden?"

Sam's hands were quaking where they still feverishly gripped the edges of the table. "What's going on? This isn't how it happened the other two times."

Hanson checked the fancy Rolex on his wrist, and nodded curtly. "The chemical usually takes about ten minutes to kick in. Your weakened system is being over-run much more quickly. Once the chemical infiltrates the bloodstream completely, it reaches the brain. It renders the brain wholly inactive for approximately three more minutes, probably a few more in Sam's body. The subject appears to be in a wide-eyed sleep, while in fact, the brain has fully shut down."

Dean was thunder struck. He was at a complete loss for words. His mouth opened, closed, opened again… _Hanson is shutting down Sam's brain? SHUTTING IT DOWN?_

Sam spoke up, "Doesn't that mean I'm going to die? If my brain shuts down?"

Hanson shook his head. "No. The chemical provides your body with enough oxygen to continue running for the several minutes your brain is on hiatus, and then some. The purpose for this is to cut off the energy supply that has been reaching the parasite, forcing the little bastard to leave the host's body. At that point, starved and weak, if it doesn't find a new host within about two minutes, the parasite will perish. It will not be able to re-enter the body from which it was made to leave."

Sam felt a bone-shuddering shiver wrack his body and he gasped, closing his eyes and willing the sudden pain in his midriff to dissolve away. He could sense his body becoming more and more unstable. The parasite inside of him was starting move uncomfortably against his backbone, probably recognizing that something wasn't right.

Hanson said quickly, "We need to get him into that glass cubicle on the other side of the room. He needs to be absolutely isolated when the parasite evacuates from his body so that it will, indeed, die. Help me lift him."

Dean didn't need telling twice. He propped Sam's arm around his neck and took a firm hold on the boy's shoulders, heaving him up off the table as Hanson lifted Sam's legs. The two of them carried Sam haphazardly into the darkness of the decrepit warehouse. The echoing thumps of their shoes against the hard floor resounded from the walls. It seemed to be taking a year to reach the other side of the building.

They set Sam down gently in the corner of the glass compartment. Hanson helped Dean lean him against the chilly wall so that he wouldn't have too much of the chilly concrete against his bare skin.

Dean squatted down in front of Sam. Sam's reddened eyes opened and found Dean's, and the brothers stared at each other for a long moment. Neither of them wanted to move or say anything, but Sam's heart was beginning to slow as the medication took a stronger hold, so both of them knew there wasn't much time.

"Look, Sam"—Dean began awkwardly.

"Don't," Sam said. "I don't want you to apologize. This wasn't your fault, it wasn't anybody's fault."

"I just—I don't want…"

"This is what we _do_, Dean. Our work brings us into this kind of thing. I knew there were risks when I entered this field with you."

Dean felt his heart sinking desperately. "Sam, I just want you to know that for all these years I've never been closer to anyone else… What we have… It's so far beyond just what we are as brothers… We have something that links us together. Something almost…_supernatural,_ I guess you might call it. Does that make any sense?"

The corners of Sam's mouth lifted slightly. "Yeah, I know what you mean. It's kind of like something unexplainable is pulling us together, and when I'm not working on a case with you, I feel empty and alone."

Dean was relieved that Sam understood his message. He had taken a huge step by opening up so much and embracing their bond, and the fact that Sam valued the same emotion made this moment even harder. _How in Hell am I going to leave him in here?_ "Sam, I really—I think I should stay in here with you."

Sam's eyes widened. "No, you can't! The whole point of this is to kill the parasite. If you're in here, it will just make you its new host, and then you would have to go through what I've been through."

_I would gladly go back in time and change history to make myself the one who got infected._ But Dean knew Sam was right. If the parasite was going to die, Dean could not be inside the cubicle with Sam. He took a deep, steadying breath. "Promise me that no matter what happens in the next ten minutes, you'll remember that I'm always here," He said softly. "And you'll remember that not even a 'parasite of fire' can stop me from getting to you if you call for help."

"I know."

"Promise me.

"I promise."

Hanson, who had been hulking in the doorway, cleared his throat gruffly. "Hike on out of there, Dean."

Sam nodded. "I'm ok, Dean. Go on."

Dean touched Sam's damp shoulder for a moment, and then stood. "I'll talk to you in a couple minutes, ok?"

"Yeah," Sam's voice was a little more strained now.

"Yell for me if you need me, and I'll break down the damn glass, got it?"

"Dean, go—you don't have too much time."

Dean backed out of the door and listened to the firm 'click' as a metal bolt locked it securely in place. Hanson grabbed his collar and led him over to the shadowy wall against which Ashley was sitting, so Dean slid down to the floor next to her once more. His watched Sam silently. His heart palpitated. A shiver of anxiety ran up his body.

**Hey! Did you like it? I hope so, this one gave me shivers as I was writing it, heh! And here comes the ground-shaking revelation I'm sure at least one person was wondering about... I think the next chappie will be the last! AAAAHHHH! So review, while you still have a chance. Heh!**


	8. Letting Someone In

**Disclaimer: I do not yet own these perfect specimins of Hottie McHothood..._yet..._**

**Sorry it's been so unbearably long since last chapter! I swear, school just gets harder and harder... Maybe I'll run away and become a hermit in the woods...that way I can have all the free time I want in order to stalk Jensen and Jared..._YES!_ And PS...this is the last chappie... SOB SOB SOB CRY CRY It's ok, you'll get over it : ) ENJOY!**

**Chapter Eight: Letting Someone In**

Everything around him was growing darker and less clear. The glass walls of the small cubicle made the rest of the warehouse look even less welcoming. He wished he were able to make out Dean in the shadows somewhere outside his small prison, but his thoughts were now too muddled for him to gather any solid ideas. He leaned his head back against the cold glass and drew in a long, unsteady breath that seemed extremely reluctant to enter his lungs.

Sam felt a chilly bead of sweat roll down his temple. He wanted to reach up and wipe it away, but he suddenly found—with a wave of nausea—that his arms were far too weighted for him to lift them from his sides. His leg muscles began to tremble, even though he wasn't using them in any way. He felt the alarmingly slow pulse in his chest.

_Dean,_ he thought blearily. _We always knew it was dangerous._

His heart thudded. Breath entered his lungs like heavy, molten liquid. His fingers curled into fists and the nails bit the hardened skin of his palms.

_I never meant to get sick like this, Dean. Ha ha ha, that's sure as Hell. Of course I didn't. Maybe if I was crazy… or diseased, or something… _Sam felt a pang of amusement, despite his condition, at the random wandering of his mind. _That's right, Sam, you just keep on thinking. Keep on thinking. I wonder why that girl is here, anyway? If I was her, I'd do anything to stay away from people that have angry spirits living in their bodies as parasites. That's right, buddy—_Sam groggily addressed the parasite itself—_all you are is any angry spirit. Hell, I'd be mad, too, if some mad scientist made me into a flaming parasite… _

The strangest sensation Sam had ever experienced suddenly gripped his body. It was as though his back muscles were rippling… waves of movement were coursing down his spine of their own accord. Sam tried to gasp, overwhelmed with surprised fear, but at that point, the sleeping chemical fully overtook his brain. He was vaguely aware of sliding sideways, eyes closed… His bare shoulders slumped… He was unconscious before his body hit the cement floor.

From where Dean sat in the darkness of the warehouse corner, his heart was beating at least three hundred times more quickly than his brother's. His eyes were wide, unblinking—he stared across the room at the glass cubicle. He had tried to put his brain on auto drive for a few moments, so he wouldn't have to think at all, but it was impossible. He couldn't _stop_ thinking.

_This is all my fault. Is it? Maybe it is, maybe it isn't—we were both nervous—but why did it have to be Sammy? I would gladly have been the one to get this shit. I can't choose, though, that's not for us to decide, but even so, it should have been me, not Sam, I'm the one that brought him into this job in the first place, I'M the one that deserves this—he's so—honest, and I'm just a… _Dean involuntarily expelled a huge breath of air as he buried his face in his hands. He could handle burning the bodies of so many angry spirits… He could handle dealing with perilous entities when there was almost _no _hope… He could handle anything. But not this.

A hand touched his shoulder. Dean flinched and looked up into the face of Roger Gavin, whom he hadn't seen throughout this entire ordeal.

Roger looked worn and haggard. "Don't lose hope, Dean."

Dean didn't answer. He glanced back at the cubicle and Sam, who was now lying sprawled across the cement floor. His eyes were closed and his lips moved aimlessly as he muttered from his subconscious.

Roger tried again. "I want you to know that my brother is doing what he thinks will work the best."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, and I'm sure that's exactly what he was doing when he decided to _make_ this goddamn bastard."

"I know he was wrong. He knows he was wrong, too. But you, of all people, should know you can't turn back time. If you keep focusing on what's already happened, instead of what's happening right now and who's on your side, you can't really be here for Sam."

Dean got to his feet. "Don't patronize me, Gavin. _Do not patronize me._ I've seen things you would never believe. I've been through things you can't even imagine. If anyone knows what to focus on in a position like this, it's me."

Gavin wasn't put off. "Since I met you… You've had this tough, outer shell, Dean. You don't want to let anybody in to see who you really are. You care so much about maintaining this image of hard ass—of 'I-know-everything-you-know-nothing-so-get-the-fuck-off-my-ass'. Can't you see who's on your side? Don't you know we're trying to _help you?_"

"Are you a psychiatrist? Thank you, doctor, but I think I'm the only one who can analyze what's happening in my head."

"It'll stay that way until you let somebody else in."

Dean paused. He looked back at Sam and felt hotness in the back of his eyes. He swallowed around a painful lump in his throat. "I have let someone in. He just doesn't know it yet."

"I think he knows," Gavin said softly.

Dean met the older man's eyes, and for the first time in his life, felt grateful for having someone older and more experienced at his side. He didn't understand it—and he would _never_ admit it—but he knew Gavin had risked a lot in order to get them to the safest place he knew. Dean was in debt to this man.

Hanson's echoing footsteps resounded ominously as he returned from the lab table once more. "It's beginning."

"What?" Dean demanded.

"The process. Our parasite is starting to make an exit."

It didn't take three seconds for Dean, Gavin, and even Ashley to scramble across the floor and seat themselves in front of the cubicle. Dean settled down onto his knees, both hands stuffed roughly into the pockets of his jacket. "Is this normal?"

"There is nothing normal about this, Mr. Winchester. But yes, this is what I expected as the first stage."

Sam was inside the compartment lying on his stomach, both arms at his sides. His head was resting against the cement with his face toward them so they could see his mouth forming incomprehensible words. His bare skin was completely drenched in sweat.

Dean frowned. "If his brain is shut down, why is he talking?"

"He's not, really. He's just making sounds. His body is reacting with spasms to the unusual activity in his brainstem. It doesn't require an amount of energy that would interfere with this process."

As Hanson spoke, Dean saw Sam's arm give a small twitch. On closer look it seemed that all the muscles in Sam's body were undergoing the same phenomenon, moving shakily and then stilling again.

Dean waited. Nothing changed. A minute passed, maybe two. The minutes seemed to each hold an entire eternity. He didn't know how much longer he could wait with nothing happening. Was Sammy not going to be alright?

"Here we go," Hanson said in a gravelly voice.

Dean's heart stopped in his chest and sank a good few feet. He pressed his hands up against the cubicle and fixed his eyes on his brother.

Sam's body convulsed. His back arched, pulling his torso away from the floor, but after a moment he fell back again. Sam's arm and leg muscles were limp, but the ones in his back along his spine were straining and knotted. His back arched upward again.

"Is this supposed to happen?"

Hanson didn't even bother to answer. He was watching Sam just as carefully as Dean was.

Something was happening inside the compartment. The air on Sam's side of the glass had started to faintly shimmer with a reddish glow, sending waves of faded color bouncing off all four sides of the cubicle. Sam's mouth was open and it looked as though he was yelling, but the glass was sound proofed. No matter how badly Dean wanted to hear Sam's voice, there was nothing he could do—he couldn't even get inside the cubicle without Hanson's key.

((Inside Sam's Mind))

There was nothing but gray emptiness for miles and miles around. Sam was sitting on the ground…At least, he thought it was the ground—there was really no definition between the earth and sky. Just gray.

He brushed his fingers back and forth across the solid nothingness below him. The grayness rippled wherever his body moved, giving him the phantasmagoric impression that he was underwater. He couldn't feel anything except for a warm pulse on his back that was growing unnoticeably stronger.

Sam suddenly remembered that he had the ability to speak. He opened his mouth. "I am Sam Winchester." Nothing came out. Instead, the grayness around his body shuddered and shook, as though fearful that he had attempted speech. "I'm not dead, you know." The grayness trembled again. Somewhere, riding the elusive crests of Sam's thoughts, he could feel the edge of what seemed to be a circular area. In his mind's eye he could detect the unyielding barrier that held him inside this gray jail, refusing to let him return to his body. His poked at it experimentally with his thoughts—a sharp jolt of pain ripped across his forehead and he quickly withdrew his mind from the barrier. The pain faded.

_I want to find Dean, _Sam thought firmly. _This place can't keep me. I control my mind, not whatever this thing is. _He frowned. _Or is this where I'm supposed to be right now? Is this where I am because my brain's been shut down? Do I have to be here in order for the parasite to die?_

Sam had never wanted to speak with Dean so badly. He felt like his entire being rested on one goal, and it was a goal he couldn't reach. Dean couldn't be in the dreamscape with him. It was a fact that bit into Sam's chest like cold barbed-wire.

_I want to find Dean. _Sam reached out once more with his mind, probing the solid edge of the dreamscape again. The pain shot through his head but he didn't retreat. There had to be some way to break down the defense and reach out to Dean… The barrier had to have some weakness… Sam ignored the searing pain and combed the barrier, searching desperately for a hole or crack—anything to allow him outside for a moment.

((Outside Sam's Mind))

Dean, now sitting back on his heels, had not removed his eyes from Sam's body. The convulsions were getting worse, and the scarlet air was twinkling menacingly. Dean didn't even notice that inside his mouth, both of his cheeks were bleeding from the grinding of his teeth.

Another minute dragged by.

Dean's eyes had drifted to Sam's left hand, which was clenched at his side, when something happened. Sam stopped moving. The air grew still.

"What is it—?"

"Shh!"

The muscles along Sam's spine were changing colors rapidly, flashing from red to blue to black to red. Something was materializing in the air above him, draining slowly out of Sam's very skin. He convulsed for a moment. The entity hovered while the last of the mist was pulled from Sam's spinal chord. It formed itself into a denser, more solid looking cloud.

The scene seemed almost peaceful for a moment. The parasite was a scarlet area hanging in the air above Sam's lifeless body. Not a muscle was moving, and Dean found himself holding his breath. He released it slowly. He drew another one in.

Movement exploded so quickly that Dean yelled and flung an arm up in front of his face, forgetting momentarily that there was a glass wall between the parasite and he. It had shot at the glass and collided with it, only to repeat the exact same thing inside of one second. It darted to the other wall and crashed again it, causing the entire compartment to shudder darkly.

"Can it get out!" Dean was scrabbling to his feet, his eyes wide.

"No. These walls can withstand a carthorse."

"Are you sure?"

"I made them myself. I'm sure."

The parasite was obviously frantic. It threw itself several times against each side of the cubicle. After about a minute, its lunges weakened slightly. The color in the room was lessening, fading from a scarlet red to a transparent pink color. Even the parasite itself was becoming faint. It moved to the center of the room, once more directly above Sam's body.

"Is it going to try and attack him again?"

"I think it's too weak."

The parasite lingered tremulously. It rotated in place.

Suddenly it burst into flames.

Dean shouted and ran toward the door, grabbing the handle and pulling it frantically.

Hanson grabbed him by the arms. "WINCHESTER! Stop being an idiot!"

"That thing just almost fried Sammy! Look at it, it's still burning! What the Hell is it doing!"

"It's _dying,_ Dean."

Dean looked again. The ball of fire that no longer even slightly resembled a misty cloud had tendrils of flame that licked upward toward the ceiling. It was suspended halfway between the ceiling and floor, not touching Sam where he lay.

"Dying—? But, it's—are you sure?"

"The property of flame would never have shown itself in open air unless the other symbiotic element was failing fatally. Yes, I'm sure."

As Hanson finished speaking, the flames shortened and the fingers of fire withdrew into themselves until all that was left was a ball of burning embers. It stayed for a moment, and then fell to the floor a few feet from Sam's left elbow.

((Inside Sam's Mind))

As Sam groped against the barrier, his mind stumbled across a small crack. He explored it hopefully. He fastened his thoughts firmly around it.

To his surprise, the crack began expanding. He withdrew hastily, shocked and confused, but the crack had engulfed more than half of the barrier by now. It was moving extremely quickly. Sam felt a pull on his mind, a strange pressure calling him out of the grayness and into the widening, dark crack. The urge became insistent. He couldn't ignore it.

He felt himself falling upside down, twisting and turning, stretching until he was 100 feet long, shrinking until he was smaller than a cell, somersaulting down a corridor, cart wheeling across a galaxy…

His mind came to rest. He was staring into an oddly lit blackness. He was aware of odd sensations running up and down his body… what _were_ those?

Realization dawned on him. It was _feeling. _He was no longer inside the dreamscape, and he could feel his body again. He was looking at the backs of his eyelids. He was hearing the incomprehensible voices of several people, but he couldn't open his eyes to see who was there.

"Sam? Say something. Are you awake? Sammy?"

_Hey, Dean. _

"Sammy, come on, open your eyes! It's gone! The parasite is gone! You're ok!"

_I know, I can tell it's not inside me anymore._

"Sam, please wake up, I need to see you're ok."

_I'm fine. Can't you tell? _

Sam felt something sharp collide with his cheek, and his eyelids slowly flickered open. They were extremely heavy and it took a huge amount of effort to open them, but the dim, glass cubicle slowly came into focus. Sam found Dean's face looming inside his field of vision, overcome with anxiety. "Sammy?"

"Dean?" Sam felt as though he'd been put through a giant meat grinder.

Dean let out a yell and punched the air with his fist. "We did it! We've beat it! It's gone!"

"I know," Sam croaked. His heartbeat had returned to normal. "I can't feel it anymore. It's gone."

"It's gone!"

"It's gone."

Dean laughed wildly, falling back onto the floor and clapping a hand to his forehead. "I knew you would be alright, Sammy!"

A smile traced its way onto Sam's lips as he watched his brother's pure joy. He wanted to preserve this moment for all of eternity. "We're alright."

"We are. We sure are. Let me help you up."

Sam struggled into a sitting position, not even aware that there were several people outside the cubicle watching. He leaned back against the wall. "I'm ok."

Dean grinned again. After a moment, he stopped and quieted, meeting Sam's eyes as they sat on the cement floor in silence. The brothers stared at each other for a long minute, the sounds of their breathing lost in the stillness. Both of them wanted to reach out and touch the shoulder of the other, but they didn't move. They sat there, without speaking, simply staring at each other.

A welcomed calm descended on the little glass cubicle, and Dean sighed softly. "I'm glad you're back, bro."

"So am I."

The two of them smiled in silent closure. Another minute or two passed. Dean finally got to his feet with a groan, and held out his hand. "Come on, Sammy. Let's get us back to the damn hotel."

Sam took Dean's hand and allowed himself to be pulled stiffly to his feet. "It's _Sam._"

**REVIEW, CHUMBERLANS! I know, I know, you don't really see the point 'cause this was the last chapter... But do you want to make my day? Are you sure? That's what I thought : ) In that case, REVIEW! Luv you. Muah!**


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